


Get Physical

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a criminal gets the drop on Sherlock it's Molly to the rescue. But Sherlock just can't let it go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a funny thought I had while at the gym. Humorous headcanons are how I make it go by quicker.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exercise and awkwardness. Hilarity ensues.

_"Middle age, brother mine, comes to us all."_

 

" _Comes to us all."_

 

_"Comes to us all."_

 

His brother's words echoed in Sherlock's head on a loop for days. He rolled those eight words around in his mind over and over as he examined himself in front of the full-length mirror.

Stripped to his pants he looked over his body, raising his arms and flexing. He scanned over his entire form, naming each of the muscle groups as his eyes swept over his own reflection. He leaned in closely, pulling down his lower lid down to appraise the tiny blood vessels in his eyes, healthy bright whites even if the skin around the corners had a few more lines. He pinched the skin of his arm to watch the color rise, all normal.

So why did he feel so... shitty?

 

***

 

Sherlock had a bounty of language at his command, multiple variants of his own native tongue as well as dozens of others. But when he sat at the edge of the paper covered exam table in John's office the only word he could come up with to describe what was happening to his body was "shitty".

"Shitty how, Sherlock? You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid 'shitty' is not a legitimate medical diagnosis." John said through his chuckle. Sherlock didn't often use expletives, it was a rare treat to hear. Even rarer, John noted, that they weren't directed at him.

"Just... shitty!" Sherlock reiterated. "I feel tired sooner than I used to. I'm actually sleeping at least two hours every day!"

"No! Not every day! Anything but that!" John replied, mockingly.

"It's not funny, John! If I go more than 24 hours without eating I get light-headed! My body aches for days after long cases, and not just in the places where I was injured!" Sherlock's voice rose over John's laughter. "Just be honest with me, John. Am I dying?"

John's laughter tapered off and he looked at Sherlock with complete sincerity. "Okay. You really want the truth?" His friend nodded sharply in response. He shifted uncomfortably on the exam table causing the paper to crinkle loudly in the silent office.

"Yes, Sherlock. You're dying."

Sherlock's eyes widened, fearfully, but he swallowed against the lump in his throat and nodded his acceptance. "How long have I got?" He asked, head down in defeat, voice raspy.

John put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulders. "Well medical science is advancing in this area but I'd say no more than 45-50 years." His voice was weighted and solemn for all of two seconds before he burst with laughter once again.

Sherlock's face soured in reaction. "Very funny, John."

"Sherlock, you're not twenty anymore. You can't run on all cylinders all the time and expect not to feel... well, shitty sometimes. That's just part of getting older. Take it easier, you'll feel better. Eat and sleep daily, keep active, make sure to get plenty of fruit and veg and stay hydrated. It's really that simple." John shrugged. He could scarcely believe he was having this conversation with a grown man, but since the grown man in question was Sherlock Holmes, it was far less surprising. He'd actually been anticipating this for some time, but he tried not to gloat too much.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes angrily. "Are you saying I'm getting old?"

"Yes. You are getting older. Every day, in fact. That's how time works. You're stronger when you're younger to give you a better chance of surviving all the stupid things you will ultimately do as a young person." John elaborated with a mirthful gleam in his eyes.

Sherlock sighed and slumped his shoulders, his forearms resting on his thighs and his head dropping chin to chest in defeat.

"Oh dear Lord! Don't tell me you've still got a bug up your arse about Molly. She was in the right place at the right time, and thank God for that!"

Sherlock made an aggravated noise in the back of his throat before rising to dress quickly. "Since all you seem inclined to do is speak nonsense and poke fun then you can carry on in my absence."

"Sherlock. Come on, mate!" John spoke to Sherlock's back as it was being covered with his Belfast and disappeared behind the exam room door.

 

***

 

Sherlock was unable to admit, even to himself, that Molly was a source of his most recent frustration.

During his last case, Sherlock had led a suspect into Bart's in order to corner him into a confession and make hasty work of his arrest. Seemed convenient to have him arrested while near enough to his samples that there would be no irritating lag between his cases and his leisurely lab-tinkering.

However the suspect was about half a second quicker than Sherlock originally gave him credit for. It wasn't until he found himself ass over teacups gasping for breath, that Sherlock began to see his error. After the hard jab to the solar plexus that had him wheezing he hauled himself to his feet, cursing. What was he thinking luring a dangerous (likely armed) criminal into Molly's lab?

Where Molly is.

Soft, gentle Molly.

He ran in the direction of the confessed criminal as fast as his legs could take him while fueled only by the small amount of oxygen he was able to take in. He didn't have far to go as mere metres outside the lab he heard gasps and chatter of a forming crowd.

"Get Lestrade!" Molly shouted from the ground to whomever was close by. Her nose was bloodied and hair in disarray as she struggled to tighten her hold on the perpetrator who had somehow found himself on his belly, trapped in Molly's figure-four leg lock. He struggled against her but she only increased the pressure so that his left ankle was pressed painfully against his thigh. The man squirmed and cried out in pain, slapping his open palm against the tiles of the floor.

"Are you really trying to tap out?!" Molly asked breathlessly, droplets of blood falling uninhibited with the movement of her lips. The man whined and nodded. "That's not how this works! This is a citizen's arrest, not a wrestling match, idiot! I'm not letting go until someone arrives with handcuffs!"

Sherlock pushed through the people gathering in the corridor, still nearly doubled over with his fist clutched to his sternum.

"Sherlock thank God you're- Are you alright?!" Molly asked seemingly unconcerned with the fact that blood was absolutely pouring from her nose at this point.

"You! Boffin! You have handcuffs don't you?" The man's agonized voice wailed out from the floor.

Sherlock shook his head, his brain hadn't yet caught up to the madness of what he was presently witnessing. "Oh er... yes." He reached for the cuffs in his coat pocket.

"Why don't you cuff me already so this crazy bitch can get the hell off of me!?" He held his wrists out so Sherlock could make short work of restraining him. Molly released the man's legs as soon as he was suitably bound and accepted Sherlock's hand to help her to her feet once more.

"Is the rudeness really necessary?" She asked in frustration. The cuffed man cowered away from her as she spoke.

"He's a criminal low-life. Rudeness is one of his better qualities." Sherlock explained, still wheezing slightly and pressing his hand to his chest.

As soon as she was able she hurriedly began examining Sherlock. "Sherlock, are you alright?" She took his pulse, which was understandably thready and checked his pupillary dilation. Sherlock stayed her hands when a large drop of blood from her nose landed on his wrist. "Molly, I think your nose is broken." He said as calmly as possible.

"What this?" Molly wiped at her nose. "This is nothing. My nose bleeds easily anyway, after a head butt it's more than understandable..." She rambled.

"Head butt? He head butted you?!" Sherlock's voice rose in anger.

"No. I head butted him." Molly answered casually, using the end of her lab coat to soak up the blood that was running from her nose.

Sherlock was stunned silent, his hands resting on Molly's shoulders while he gathered his thoughts.

"Actually..." The restrained man groaned. "I think my nose may be broken."

Sherlock waved in the man's face with a brushing motion. "Tell it to NSY." He said dismissively.

"I would feel better if I gave him a once over." Molly interjected.

The man struggled in his bonds to look over to Sherlock. "No, please!" He begged. "Keep her away from me!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled the man upright by his forearms right as Lestrade and Donovan rounded the corner to apprehend their criminal.

After that everything was a flurry of "Well done, Molly!", "Good thing Molly was there.",

And once a weapon had been found on the perpetrator it had all switched to, "Are you mad, Sherlock?", "You put people at risk with your recklessness!", and "This is why we have protocols!"

Dull.

He got the desired result. Does it really matter how? But even when he told himself that he knew it wasn't true.

_"What kind of results do you care about?"_

 

_***_

 

Molly's legs burned as she struggled up the steps to her flat, thanking God her gym was so close to her building. Still, after tonight's especially grueling session with her trainer, she had seriously contemplated hailing a cab for the few blocks home. Ultimately she decided to walk it because she loathed the very notion that she might be the smelliest thing inside of a London cab.

All she wanted, she contemplated as she jammed the key into her lock, was to wrestle of her sports bra, take a long shower, and sleep. She pushes her door open, drops her gym bag by the door with a sigh before working her hoodie over her head. As she was pulling the garment over her head she heard a well-timed throat clear.

"Of course." She slumped in defeat. So Sherlock Holmes is standing there while her arms are over her head and she's in a smelly tank top, so saturated with sweat, anyone could see straight to her hot pink sports bra. Molly steeled herself and pulled the hoodie off, flinging it toward a laundry basket. Working off her tank top next. It wasn't hiding anything anyway and the way it was clinging to her in the cooling air of her flat made her cringe.

"Whatever it is, Sherlock. I can't tonight, alright? I'm knackered. I promise I'll do it first thing tomorrow." She spoke still somewhat breathlessly as she worked her trainers off her feet, balling up her socks and tossing them into the same laundry basket. Molly was incredibly aware of how she smelled in this moment. Naturally, Sherlock had picked the moment Molly's body odour had reached critical mass to drop in on her. They wouldn't be them if they weren't always catching each other in their worst moments.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Rough night?" He asked mirthfully. His mild temperament putting her at ease.

She chuckled softly, falling onto her sofa with a long satisfied sigh. He joined her, his coat and jacket slung over a nearby chair. "How do I go about deducing whether my trainer is a sadist?" Molly mused as she fished the remote from between the sofa cushions.

"Easy. The palms. Rope play leaves a distinct callous pattern." Sherlock stated airily, as if it were common knowledge.

"Actually that doesn't help much. We use ropes in class." Molly held up her hands, "See? I have still have a rope burn from the day before yesterday."

Sherlock was taken aback. He took a moment to recall anyone he'd ever deduced as a sexual sadist and was now re-evaluating whether that assumption was correct. He flipped through each one like a catalog, but dismissed it right away since none of them were anywhere close to as fit as Molly is. Then realization shone down on him, seemingly from on high...

_My God... Molly is fit!_

He didn't know if it bothered him that he noticed, or if it bothered him that it took him this long to notice. Either way, he was properly bothered. "Two things can be true." He said, crossing his arms over his chest, speaking in a huff.

Molly chuckled. "Well fitness training definitely seems like the type of job to get if that's what gets you off." Molly yawned and stretched, a fresh wave of sweat smell hit her nose and she remembered the state she was in. She rose from the couch and went to the kitchen for a glass of water.

"What did you need, anyway?" She asked, filling the glass and taking a long gulp.

"It can wait until after your shower. Just wanted to go over some notes about the last case." Sherlock said affecting a casual demeanor.

A little too casual for Molly's liking and none of what he was saying made any sense. Since when did he go over notes with her on a case he'd already solved?

She pulled a look of confusion. "The arsonist?" She asked, closing her eyes as she pressed the cool glass to her neck.

Sherlock's throat felt thick suddenly and he struggled against a rasp in his voice. "Problem?"

"Hm. No, no problem. It's just you've never asked to rehash a case before. Not really you're thing is it? Always onward and upward with you.", she spoke before draining the last of the water in the glass, and contemplated if Sherlock would mind awfully if she took off her trackies the fabric had begun to rub her wrong. 

It was her flat after all. She hadn't exactly invited him. But she never sends him away either, that's as good as gold embossed invitation hand delivered by cherubs in Sherlock's book. Oh well, she was only wearing her dowdy grey boy briefs anyway. It's not as though he'd get the impression she was seducing him. She wasn't certain he was capable of getting that impression, even of she were. From behind the counter of her kitchenette she dropped her trackies.

Sherlock blinked as he saw Molly bend down and stand up once again with her trousers balled up in her hands. Before he knew it they were sailing passed his face and into the laundry basket with a whoosh.

"Yes!" Molly congratulated herself with a little bounce.

Sherlock was baffled but Molly hardly seemed to notice.

"Okay Sherlock. I'll only be about 15 minutes. You can watch telly or get something to eat..." Molly turned, opening her fridge to examine it's contents. "But unless you have a powerful craving for soggy leftover chips and half a jar of chutney I would order in." She shrugged, shutting the fridge door.

"Uhm... tempting as that sounds I suppose I could order something. What would you like?" Sherlock asked, eyes lowered as she traveled from behind the kitchen counter to the dining table to pluck a clean folded towel from the laundry basket that was sitting on top.

Molly paused and did another little double take. "What?"

"I am ordering food. Would you like some? And if so, what sort of food would you prefer?", Sherlock answered, unable to mask the tone of annoyance in his voice.

Molly folded the towel over her forearm and shook her head. "Uhm... I'm fine with whatever. Dealer's choice, yeah?"

Strange. Sherlock had never asked for Molly to express an opinion on shared comestibles. Either he appeared at her flat and ate whatever food she had on hand or he came round with takeaway already in hand to share.

Sherlock nodded looking up at her, scanning her from head to toe with his laser focus.

Molly blanched under his scrutiny, remembering herself for an instant, "Uhm, right. So... shower."

She fumbled gesturing toward the corridor with her thumb before retreating to the solitude of the bathroom.

She sighed as she looked herself over in the mirror. She was splotchy and red, shiny with sweat and had only about a million fly-aways in her hair.

_So, basically only slightly worse than how he usually sees you._

She rolled her eyes while she takes her long hair down from the bun on top of her head.

 

 ***

 

Sherlock exhaled when he heard the water running in the shower. What the hell was happening? Molly stripping to her knickers as if he weren't there. As if she had as much regard for his presence as the furniture's.

It occurred to him at once that the day had finally come. The day when Molly Hooper no longer carried a torch for him. He always knew this day would arrive, and now that it has...

He should be glad, shouldn't he? No more of Molly Hooper's tender feelings to consider after he's said something particularly awful.

No more tension in the lab, although he found he didn't mind their casual physical intimacies. The way she had a habit of brushing her fingers across his when she brought him coffee, or placing her hand on his shoulder to balance herself when he wanted her opinion on a specimen staged under the microscope. Or even the way her eyes would sometimes smolder at him, blushing and turning away, embarrassed when he caught her.

No more caring about what she would think when he is contemplating using again.

_Oh perhaps this was not such a good thing after all._

And since when was she so fit? Well no...Perhaps under further consideration "fit" was a bit generic.

Molly was smooth and defined. The lighting played off her skin, framing the shadows of soft skin covering taut sinew. She glistened from exertion and she was covered in the most delightful flush. This is quite different, of course, when he sees her she's usually covered in half a dozen layers of shapeless wool and cotton.

His mind flashed back to the Christmas party when she dropped her coat to reveal that slinky black dress. Certainly her body had been lovely then but she had increased her efforts in recent months. Apparently this trainer she spoke of is her latest endeavor in this lifestyle change. But why, Sherlock wondered, was she making such an effort? Who's attention was she trying to catch if not his?

Conclusion: over Sherlock, but not over relationships. The opposite, in fact. She was ready to pursue one with someone else.

Something Molly said came to the forefront of his mind.

_"How do I go about deducing whether my trainer is a sadist?"_

It suddenly seemed like such a strange thing for her to ask. It was unlike Molly to care about another person's peccadilloes, unless she was interested in what they might be for personal reasons.

It all seemed so logical now. She was over him because she was smitten with this trainer, whoever he is. Probably some over-muscled, under-brained, meat head. He pictured a blonde Don Draper. The woman was inexplicably besotted with the chain-smoking, womanizing advertising executive. 

Yet when he smoked it was nothing but 'Those Will kill you, blah blah blah'. Yet when he used a woman for his own gains, it was endless choruses of 'How could you, Sherlock?'

He was disappointed in her hypothetical selection of men, even moreso than he usually was in her real choices. Really, he had credited Molly with being less cliche than that.

Sherlock seethed as he went about ordering their food, all the while denying he was seething. Despite the fact that he'd yelled at the man on the phone for asking him to repeat himself. It wasn't Sherlock's fault the man couldn't understand 'jiaozi' ordered through gritted teeth. 

 

 ***

 

Molly exited the bathroom in her fuzzy yellow dressing gown to Sherlock staring a hole in her telly. She slipped down beside him, tucking her ankles under her bottom. "Alright?" She asked, cocking her head to the side.

"What? Oh yes. Fine. The food should arrive in approximately 9 minutes."

"Okay." She answered as a yawn built up and she stretched and rubbed her eyes. "Oh. Should... Should I get a pen and paper? You said you needed to go over some notes." She moved as if she was going to stand but he belayed her with a halting gesture.

"That won't be necessary." He assured. "I just have a few missing data points that I was hoping you could provide." 

"Okay." She agreed, using her remote to idly surf through the channels. Not really watching, just busying herself while she awaited Sherlock's doubtlessly rapid-fire interrogation to take place.

Sherlock seemed tense. His gaze was even more elusive than usual, although direct eye contact wasn't usually his strong suit, she'd noticed. 

Most people had difficulty looking others in the eyes when they were lying. The reverse was true for Sherlock Holmes. The more honest he was being, the less of his actual irises you saw. 

She lowered the volume with the remote until the noises of, whatever programme was on, dimmed to a faint murmur.

"When... When the arsonist approached you, what tipped you off that something was amiss?" He finally said after a long moment.

"He didn't approach me. I approached him." 

Sherlock managed to curb a surprised expression.

"But..." She continued. "I suppose it was something about his walk. He was walking fast but looked distracted. As if he was trying to appear casual while looking behind him all at once. Also, I saw when you took him into the lab. You had your trademark 'gotcha' smirk on your face. And moments later he's rushing out alone? It was pretty easy math, Sherlock." She giggled.

He took in her words, his hands raised in prayer pose against his mouth. Dropping them after a moment, he squinted his eyes. It was a long moment before he spoke again.

"Wait, my what smirk?!" He seemed alarmed and it gave Molly a little fit of giggles. 

"Your 'gotcha' smirk. It's this tiny little twitch of a smile in the right corner of your lip. Just here." She pointed to the corner of her own lip twitching it up comically before sighing. "I can't do it right but it's a thing you do. I'm not sure how else to explain it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in annoyance at her description of this dubious smirk. He'd always prided himself on being every inch the maverick, stoic to the last. Now, Molly bloody Hooper, of all people, was claiming he had a tell. 

_'You do. And she sees. She can always see you.'_

Ugh, Mycroft and his great beak of a nose poked in on his thoughts uninvited, per usual.

"Er... So anyway..." She stumbled, he must have done that thing where he quietly answers back to the voices in his mind palace. It usually tripped people up.

"I approached him but before I could even say anything he shoved me and made like he was going to start running. So I just... you know... went on instinct." She shrugged.

No Sherlock didn't really know. Every move he'd ever made, to his memory, had been tactical, calculated. But he nodded anyway.  
  
"I head butted him. I'm not sure why that was my first choice. Seemed like a good idea at the time." Molly wrinkled her nose and inwardly groaned, remembering her bloodied nose pouring out like a tap. "Famous last words, I know." She added sardonically. 

Sherlock's nostrils flared, he looked away as if thinking then broke the silence with a pronouncement of "Actually..." Molly settled more deeply into the sofa. With Sherlock, 'Actually' usually signaled an oncoming info-dump."The height difference between yourself and the arsonist would have made a punch less effective, the angle of your fist would have been wrong for connecting properly and most of the force would have been expended before making contact. A head butt is easier to steer, you use the full force of your weight, more surface area and gravity works for you. The head butt was... a smart call." 

Molly cocked an eyebrow, Sherlock's voice had been tentative. As if he wasn't sure that telling her that was a good idea. Molly pointed to her temple and did her best over-dramatic 'thinking hard' face "Bash my head into more people. Got it. Noted."

"That's not what I mea- Oh you're teasing me..."

"They said you were quick." Molly pressed her lips into a poorly veiled grin, suppressing a chuckle. 

Sherlock managed to look stormy for only a few seconds before getting back on mission. "I still don't understand how you got from the head butt to the leg-lock."

"Yeah as if I wasn't having a weird enough day, what with the whole head-butting business. I had to go ahead and wrestled a man between my legs, in broad daylight, no less. My mum will never be able to show her face at the Church  Bake-off again." Molly snorted a soft laugh. "Parish the thought." 

"Lord, Molly." Sherlock sighed with exasperation at her pun, shaking his head, which only caused her to laugh harder. 

"But honestly, once he hit the ground he immediately started to get back up so I just sort of leaped after him. I couldn't match him for upper body strength so I decided on the leg-lock. UGH! when is that food getting here? I'm starving!" She added when her stomach growled. 

"Four minutes, give or take 45 seconds." He answered without pause. 

"Oh thank God!"

"Thank me, I'm buying."

Molly rolled her eyes, "Thank you kind stranger. - ooh Saturday Night Live is on! Er... sorry did you still need me to-?" She had the remote poised in front of her to raise the volume, awaiting Sherlock's okay.  

"No it's fine, I think I have all I need. But really, your love of this show is baffling to me. It doesn't even make you laugh."

"I do laugh! It's just mostly, you know, internal."

"But it's a re-run. You've seen this one before." 

"Jon Hamm is hosting! I love Jon Hamm! He does the most debonair impression of James Mason."

Sherlock scoffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest with a thundercloud for an expression. "If you say so." Oh he was quite put out now. He was definitely going to have to get a good look at this trainer that held Molly's fancy so thoroughly. He didn't have long to contemplate his frustration, as a moment later the food arrived.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a long meandering chapter. I plan on one more chapter after this to bring it all to a close, but this chapter is just this crazed stream of consciousness with very little self editing so enjoy! :P Thanks to everyone who let kudos and comments.

He wasn't tailing her. That would be ridiculous. He just happened to be in the area, in trainers and trackies with his hoodie pulled down over his eyebrows so as not to be recognized. Or also because it had begun to drizzle. But not because he was tailing her. Not that she would ever know if he was, so the whole subject is moot in the first place. 

He watched from the other side as Molly rounded the corner of the adjacent street, heading toward a, surprisingly small, grey brick building with large windows. There didn't seem to be much to the place. Plain black rubbery mat flooring, a variety of equipment arranged along the back wall. Molly was greeted warmly by 3 other women in the class who had taken a break from their stretching to smile at her. So far, neither hide nor hair could be found of the Don Draper of fitness trainers. He could see doors in the corner of the gym, one that looked like it went to a shower and locker room and one, perhaps for an office. Sherlock found himself striding toward the building. 

He leaned against the concrete pillar in front of the building as casually as possible, now that he'd quit smoking again he'd have to relearn what to do with his hands while pretending to not stalk someone. He tried putting them in his pockets. But he felt a bit internally self conscious that he was watching a woman he had followed, taking off her hoodie to reveal that she was wearing nothing but a sports bra and leggings, with his hands in his pockets. He wanted his hands to be visible, for his own sake of mind. 

His next strategy was to take out his phone and pretend to text but that posed a challenge with trying to look inside the gym while also pretending to be glued to his mobile screen. He thought he'd figured out the perfect way to inconspicuously hold his mobile while catching the reflection of the people in the gym, now gathered in front of a whiteboard looking over some writing that was indiscernible from his distance. He dove forward as he fumbled and nearly dropped the phone in a gathering puddle.

"Oi, butterfingers!" He heard a woman's voice say from above him and the toes of some well-worn trainers came into view. He looked up at her, cocking his brow in question. "Like what you see in there?" She asked gesturing behind her, toward the gym. 

"Pardon?" Sherlock responded, a little more defensively than he intended to. Appraising the woman before him. She had warm brown skin and curly dark tendrils pulled up into a loose bun.   

"No lookie-loos allowed. Either come in and stretch out or jog on." She ordered authoritatively, hands on her hips. She held his gaze for an intense moment before they were interrupted by the door swinging open behind her. 

"Miranda, I just had a question about the- Sherlock?!" _Just perfect._  

"Hullo, Molly." Sherlock answered her with a flat smile. 

"Uhm... What are you doing here?" She asked tentatively, searching his face with a fretful expression. 

"My boxing club has been overrun by people obsessed with something called Mixed Martial Arts, which as far as I can tell, is just dressed up street brawling. Thought I would give this a try, since you seem to enjoy it so much." He may not have filtered out all the bitterness in his voice at the last line. 

"Great!" Miranda said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's get you inside for some paperwork!"

Somehow Sherlock found himself turned toward the door, and in another blink he was inside with a clipboard shoved in his hand. Standard release of liability waiver... Wait what?

Surely the exercise is not that intense. He shook his head and signed the form with a careless few flicks of the pen across the page, and handed it back to Miranda. She quickly filed it away in the circular desk by the entrance. 

He looked over at Molly who seemed tense since his arrival and it struck Sherlock that this might, in fact, be one of those 'a bit not good' things he has a tendency to do. Especially to Molly. It was hard for Sherlock to know where the boundary between casually intimate and grievous invasion of privacy lie between them. Seemed like a good idea to ask. "Molly. Alright?"

"What? Oh, yeah." She answered distractedly. 

He put his hand on her shoulder to get her full attention. "I mean, is it alright with you that I am here?" He asked sincerely. 

She opened and closed her mouth for a moment before pressing them into a thin line and wrinkling her nose as if she were attempting to muster the courage to say something. "I don't know, Sherlock." She finally answered with a sigh. " _Is_ it alright that you're here?"

Well that certainly wasn't what he was expecting. "Excuse me?" He asked, a note of incredulity in his voice. 

"Can I speak with you?" She turned and looked at the other women in the gym who had begun to take notice of their conversation. "Privately?"

Before his affirmative even left his mouth she had him by the forearm with a shockingly strong grip, hauling him toward an equipment room. 

"Molly, I'm sorry if-" He began before she cut him off. 

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Sherlock?" She asked "Has your physical therapist cleared you for this?" Her hands were on her hips and she looked at him reproachfully. 

Technically he was still supposed to be attending physical therapy for the damage from his gunshot wound 6 months ago. He'd quit after 5 weeks because, it was pointless and tedious. He was perfectly capable of handling his recovery on his own, thank you very much. "Why would I need to ask a physical therapist for permission to do a little exercise? I'm an adult, Molly. "

"Why would you-? Is that a serious question?" Her voice went up a bit in pitch as she became clearly more frustrated with him. 

The blank look he favored her with made her chuckle in disbelief. 

"Oh where to begin? Maybe with your multiple stress fractures, torn rotator cuff, damage in your ACL and the fact that you are sporting about a two-finger wide diastasis recti!?" She gestured toward each of the damaged areas frantically as she spoke. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and clenched his teeth trying not to be insulted by the fact that she had come to the erroneous conclusion, that his past injuries meant he was somehow incapable of keeping up. "Molly please." He sighed, rolling his eyes and turning his head dismissively.

He walked out of the equipment room and back onto the main gym floor. That was quite enough of that. He recalled there being something in the paperwork Miranda handed him about listing injuries but he left it blank, it was irrelevant anyway. 

"Alright, everyone will need a kettlebell!" Miranda called out to the group. "Sixteen Kilograms, ladies. That's thirty-two for you." She pointed to Sherlock who flashed a cocky smirk before picking it up by the handle. He made a show of lifting with one hand, dangling it from the end of his fingers demonstratively.

"And dumbbells. Fifteen pounds for the ladies." Again she spun around to Sherlock pointing at him and announcing "twenty-five for you." With a smile.

He crossed the gym floor near to where Molly had begun to lay out her weights. Arranging his own out on the floor in a similar fashion, compulsively laying them completely straight. 

"Let's get started! Four hundred metre sprint, twenty-five kettlebell swings then twenty-five dumbbell man-makers." Miranda smiled mischievously as all the women except Molly groaned.

Now Sherlock was certain this would be simplicity itself. He honestly wondered if he'd even work up a sweat. Everyone slowly marched toward the back of the room where a large garage door opened into the back of the building. 

Behind it were several tractor tyres and a large stretch of pavement marked at 200, 400 and 800 metres. This was where they were meant to do their sprinting. Everyone quietly surveyed the terrain briefly before Miranda impatiently shouted "What are you waiting on, an invitation?! Go! Move!"

Well there went his Don Draper trainer theory.

Molly was the first to dash out into the drizzling chill of the London evening, the soles of her shoes squeaking against the wet cement. Her long ponytail waved behind her and he thought he saw her shiver ever so slightly in the cool air. 

But then he remembered he was meant to be running.

In a few long strides he was apace with her. He smiled boyishly but she paid him no heed. Her eyes remained focused, locked on the horizon before her, shining with an intensity he rarely gets to see in her. And never from the perspective of third-party observer. Usually when she was this focused on a singular purpose, that purpose was giving Sherlock a dressing down in front of all his friends and then possibly slapping him in the face.

Not being the subject of this particular intensity was immensely fascinating for Sherlock. He wanted to continue to observe her but he found himself falling behind, which wasn't an unpleasant place to be. Molly's bum in wet leggings is not an image he'd ever delete. Before he knew it, she was toeing the 200 metre line and running back, he barely had time to edge out of her way as she rushed by. He wasn't far behind, reaching the 200 metre line and turning to follow her back into the building where she was already shaking off water droplets before striding to where she set up her kettlebell. She gripped the handle firmly in her palms, she stood with her legs shoulder-width apart, holding the metal weight between them. She rocked her hips, pushing the the bell forward. She caught it above her head, her arms holding the weight high above her. She immediately gained momentum and by the time he arrived at his own weights she'd already done 5 swings. 

Sherlock approached the bell, looking down at it with a cocky smile. He reached for it, lifting it the same way Molly had only- _Christ almighty my goddamned shoulder!_ The pain faded gradually until it became manageable and despite the discomfort he found a rhythm swinging the kettlebell up, not quite overhead but-

"Full extension, Sherlock!" Miranda called after he'd finished 10 swings with the bell barely overhead. He grit his back teeth and did as instructed even though it felt like his shoulder was unscrewing from it's socket every time he did. Molly was already finished with her kettlebell swings and was reaching for her dumbbells when she caught sight of him and flashed him a concerned look, providing him the perfect motivator to finish out his 25 and dive right into the man-makers. Dumbbells in hand he took a moment to watch Molly, just to insure he understood the movement before doing them himself.

Push-up while gripping the dumbbells, row left arm, row right arm, stand then squat and shoulder press. Easy. Except his shoulder was still aching and when he began to squat his injured ACL made itself known. The pain wasn't terribly intense if he didn't squat too low. Squats were not his strong-suit. His work simply did not call for much squatting. 

"Remember, to squat BELOW parallel!" Miranda called to the entire room, thankfully choosing not to single him out. Sherlock clenched his entire body in anticipation of the... discomfort (his mid rejected the word 'pain' immediately) redoubling his efforts to squat as instructed in spite of the fact that he could feel a pulling in his knee. He'd only finished 15 before he noticed Molly dashing back out the back door, confused he finished out the man-makers and stood, looking at the other women, still working on their own man-makers. 

"Out of gas already?" Miranda asked jokingly. 

"What?!" Sherlock asked breathily, but he wasn't having trouble catching his breath. This was only simple exercise after all. 

"You only finished the first round." She explained pointing to the large whiteboard on the wall where she'd listed the day's instructions. "X Two, that means two rounds." She explained and he chose not to take her tone as condescending. 

Sherlock had a sinking feeling, purposefully ignoring the longer list of movements below the ones he'd just completed. Molly was running back in, slowing and reaching for a water bottle she'd set beside her weights. "Alright, Sherlock?" Molly asked after gulping from her bottle. Just then the other women in the gym were standing and starting to run. Sherlock dismissed her question, breaking into a sprint to begin the second round. 

The cool rain outside was soothing against his burning skin, perhaps his not even breaking a sweat notion was somewhat off it's mark. He was outpacing the others who were also sprinting at least. After his sprint he returned to his space beside Molly's where she was finishing out her kettlebell swings. Completely focused, Sherlock dove back into his kettlebell swings in spite of Molly's concerned sidelong glances. 

Finished with his kettlebells he dove into his second set of man-makers, sweat from his brow dripping into his eyes onto the rubber mat flooring. By the end, his shoulder and knee ached fiercely but he had finished, and quite a bit ahead of the others (save Molly who was examining the whiteboard and trying to look like she wasn't giving Sherlock pitying puppy eyes.)  He decided to join her to at least alleviate some of her annoying concern. 

He strode toward her, not exactly limping but definitely favoring the leg without an aching knee. "Molly." He greeted. "Well done."

"Sherlock." She sighed. She looked down at the knee that she knew must be paining him, biting her lip. "You don't have to do this, you know. You don't have anything to prove to anyone. Least of all me." She said quietly. 

"I'm not trying to prove anything. I legitimately needed a new place to exercise." He insisted. Although he hadn't been to his boxing club since before being shot, but she didn't need to know that. Her slanted look gave him the impression that she perhaps had an inkling. 

"You didn't even bring any water." She noted.

"I..." She had him there. "Forgot it?" 

Molly turned toward him, hands on her hips she pierced him with a scrutinizing glare. "You? Forgetting something? Sherlock please... How long were you following me." 

"Please, don't flatter yourself. I was in the area anyway." 

 "You know for a self-proclaimed sociopath-"

"High functioning sociopath." He corrected. 

Molly gave a long-suffering sigh, rolling her eyes. "Regardless. You're a pretty shit liar." She looked down at the space between their feet. "Please tell me your ego isn't still bruised from that whole mess with the arsonist." 

Sherlock visibly bristled at her plea and opened his mouth to say something before Miranda spoke, loudly addressing the gym. 

"Great work everyone! Feeling warmed up?"

_'Warmed up'?! That was a fucking warm-up?!_

"For your skills work today we're just going to max your dead-lifts. Go ahead and grab a bar, and get it racked up." The women broke up to grab a bar from where they were hung along the wall, Sherlock moved to follow but was stopped by Miranda. "The ones with the blue rings are the men's bars. 20 kilograms." She informed him, gesturing toward the bars. He nodded in understanding and joined the others who were pulling their own bars down and carrying them to the weight racks. 

He was internally grateful that the next portion would be something that was relatively easy on his knee and shoulder. This would be his chance to show Molly he was still hearty... virile. Not the feeble kitten she seems insistent on viewing him as. He was not another Toby for her to coddle and feed. Even if she did provide a significant portion of his meals and he was known to be agreeable to a bit of coddling. 

"If you'll just hook up your iPod we'll get started." Miranda instructed to Molly whose eyes flashed to Sherlock for an instant before she chewed her lip and blushed. 

"Oh, that's okay. Rachael can take my turn tonight." She answered, trying to affect nonchalance.

"Really!?" The woman who must have been Rachael asked her voice coloured with surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it's fine, Rachael." She dismissed. 

"But the other night you complained about my mix the whole time. You said 'I can't lift to Taylor Swift'. Which ended up being a lie anyway because you beat us all." Rachael insisted.  

"It's fine, go ahead." Molly was becoming annoyed at the woman's persistence.

"Reps leader picks the music, those are the rules." Miranda ruled causing Molly to slump a bit, but shook it off. Molly walked over to the speaker system of the gym to plug her iPod into the USB port with resignation.

Thumping percussion filtered from the speakers followed by the lyrics,"My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard." 

Sherlock smirked watching Molly return to her bar, blushing hotly. But the music was adequately up-tempo, Sherlock began to add weights to his bar, not bothering with the claps as he was just going to add more weight after a few lifts. He could hear and feel a creaking sensation in his knee as he got into position to lift the bar, now also carrying two 25 lb weights. The movement was simple, grip the bar and simply stand, lifting in to mid-thigh or as Miranda called it "high hang". The weight pulled on his shoulder as he stood, gritting his back teeth. He ignored the pain, only transport after all, finished 3 lifts with the current weight and added more. 

Glancing at Molly who was already adding another pair of twenty-fives putting the weight on her bar somewhere near her own body weight. She didn't pay him any heed as she got into the form for the lift and with a growl rose from her squat, lifting the bar into the high-hang position. Dropping the bar once she'd cleared the lift and squatting down to lift it again, and again then adding more weight. Sherlock became aware he was staring when Miranda came up beside him. 

"You wouldn't think she could lift so well just from looking at her, would you? She's a tough bird, consistently leads the pack in my classes. Sherlock nodded continuing to add weight and lift his own bar. But with each lift he let out an undignified grunt of effort. 

"Looks like you're close to your max, Sherlock." Miranda noted. Sherlock gave a non-commital shrug. "For the next few I just want you to lift once with each added weight. Just keep adding until you can't lift it anymore."

He did as instructed, opting to ignore Molly who was continually adding more weight, and despite her grunts of effort and her need to drop the bar immediately after lifting she continued to add weight and lift again. She was well past her own body weight at this point. Somewhere around 180 lbs. 

For his own part, Sherlock found with each lift his arms and legs trembled slightly with his effort, but he continued to add weight and lift on, pausing to pull the hem of his vest up to wipe sweat from his face. After the third time he gave it up as a bad job and merely whipped it off, it would function as merely a towel now. 

"Whoa. Stop" Miranda interrupted him as he was about to bend down to lift again. He jumped slightly when he felt her hand somewhere between his chest and stomach. "This is diastasis recti" She gestured to the furrow between his abdominal muscles. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, to hide the fact that he was rolling them, gritting his back teeth in annoyance. "Problem?"

"Yeah it's a bit of a problem. This is something you need to have mentioned in your paperwork. Anything else?" Her arms were crossed over her chest in annoyance. 

"No." He grumbled. 

"Yes!" Molly called out confidently, but withered under his icy stare. "He has an injured rotator cuff and a damaged ACL." She added meekly. 

Judging by her expression, Miranda was properly pissed off now. She took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her fists at her side. "Many of the movements we've done today are not appropriate with your injuries." Her voice was steady but low and simmering with anger. 

"No need to concern yourself, I've already signed your waiver." He answered dismissively. 

"I'll not have people injuring themselves in my gym. You may stay, but you must complete the workout with prescriptive movements, understood?"

He gave a single nod, glancing at Molly with narrowed eyes. _Traitor_.

"Take a break, get a drink of water." Miranda ordered returning to the whiteboard looking over the rest of the work out to determine how it could be adjusted to accommodate Sherlock's injuries. He sauntered toward a lifting bench and straddled it with a sigh. Watching Miranda look over the exercises she'd assigned for the day, tapping a capped dry erase marker against her chin as she tried to work out an alternative for Sherlock. This was humiliating. He had half a mind to walk out right now, in fact, that seemed like the best course of action but just as he moved to stand Molly was before him holding out a bottle of water, wet with condensation. He wanted to be angry with her, wanted to refuse her offer out of spite, but the water looked cold and his mouth felt sticky. He took it without thanking her or even looking her in the eyes, draining half the bottle in a single long gulp. 

"I'm not sorry." Molly murmured. "I mean, I'm sorry that you're angry but I'm not sorry I told Miranda about your injuries. Isn't the work the most important thing? How are you going to take cases if you're down from aggravating your injuries, or worse, rhabdomyolysis?"

Sherlock scoffed, even if she was technically correct. 

"Alright." Miranda announced, resignation in her voice. Sherlock, I suppose just get on the rowing machine for the remainder of class. One thousand metres."

"Two thousand." Sherlock countered. 

Miranda sighed. "Whatever." 

Molly didn't even attempt to hide her eyeroll and exasperated sigh. 

Miranda gathered the women to discuss the final set for the day's work out while Sherlock pulled the small machine down from where it was propped against the wall. Taking his time to adjust the foot rests and fiddle with the display while a female singer informed listeners that "Starships were meant to fly." Whatever that means.

Before long the women broke up into their individual spaces and the music volume rose. Miranda held out a remote, pointing it toward an LED display on the wall which began to countdown from 5. There was a long drawn out beep when the clock ran down and the women began to work. Handstand push ups, pull ups and box jumps seemed to be the exercises du juor. He watched as Molly confidently bent down, taking her full weight on her hands and pushing gracefully off and straightened against the wall, starting in on her push-ups immediately. 

Sherlock began, but his eyes were drawn to Molly instead of the display as he got into a leisurely pace on the rower. He admired how serene she looked when she moved about with confidence. He sometimes got to catch glimpses of it in the lab, in the moments between his frenzied barking of orders and icy indifference to her attempts at small talk. Her legs tipped forward to take her weight again once she finished, barely needing more than a few seconds to recover from her inverted position before practically skipping to the bar to do her pull ups. Finally a movement she seemed to struggle with. She shook and grunted quietly with each one, still managing them.

Sherlock noted the height difference between Molly and the box she was meant to be jumping on top of. The height of the box was a scant few centimetres lower than the height of her hips, he wasn't certain how she could manage such a thing yet she seemed to almost levitate for a split second, her knees almost to her chest as she jumped onto the box and stood up. Not even taking a second to revel in the triumph of what she'd just done, to his utter amazement, she merely steps down and does it again. 

It almost annoys him. Scratch that. It annoys the ever-living fuck out of him, how strong she is. How capable. He always felt the need to protect her, to keep her safe, from his enemies. From himself. The way she handled herself with the arsonist was evidence she didn't need his help with criminals. And the way she unapologetically stood up to him and informed Miranda of his injuries was proof enough she didn't need protection against him. Hell, her slapping him across the face after his relapse had proven that long ago. 

She didn't need him. Never had. He didn't know how he ever got it into his head that she did. He was just an alley cat, bouncing in and out of her flat, eating her food, making a mess, hissing and scratching only to bound off at the first interesting noise outside. That is what annoyed him truly, how needless she was of him. Especially given how badly he needed her.

The handle of the rower slid in his hands as his palms were slick with sweat, he stopped and unlatched from the rower to chalk his hands. Chalk! He'd noticed Molly had a smudge of white powder along the flap of her messenger bag. He'd thought she'd been baking, she always seemed to carry the aroma of vanilla, but he realized now it must have been residual from chalking her hands. He made a note and filed it away. That information had potential to be helpful in cases.

He was on his way back to his rower when he heard Molly cry out, "AH! Bollocks!" Molly had miscalculated on one of her box jumps, slamming her shins against the edge of the box, she pulled her leggings up to assess the damage and, surely enough there were bright red gashes running horizontally across her legs and just beginning to ooze blood. She bounced on her toes, face awash with pain as she hissed and bit her lip. 

Almost without conscious thought, he found himself leaping from the machine and at her side to inspect the damage. She hissed again and jumped to find Sherlock bending down, trailing his fingers over them lightly. "Jesus! Sherlock!"

"Are you alright?" He asked with genuine concern. 

"I'm fine." She stepped away from him and repositioned herself in front of the box, miscalculating again, falling against the edge with a slam and a cry of "FUCK!"

"Molly. Stop!" Sherlock stated, bodily blocking her from the box. She responded with a look of fury, made all the more terrifying by her heavy breathing and red face. 

Miranda noticed the kerfuffle and shouted from across the room, while spotting another woman's hand stands. "Just move on to the pull ups, Molly!" 

Molly nodded, turning away from Sherlock and walking toward the bar. She gripped it but Sherlock noticed her hand sliding, too slick with sweat to afford her a strong hold. She powered through her pull ups, dropping to the floor inspecting her hands. A neat row of skin rips had opened up over the knuckle pads of her palms. 

"Chalk up! You only have two rounds left Molly. Almost there!" Miranda encouraged.

Sherlock was back to the rower and due to the leisurely pace he'd set, and the break to check on Molly, he was barely halfway to his 2000 metre goal. He reached for his discarded vest top, swiping it across his brow and blinking before noticing the rower had a place to adjust for resistance. Currently it was set quite low, 5 when the machine went all the way to 10. He bumped it up to 8 and with a little more resistance, each pull on the bar took more effort but cleared more metres. With some quick math he determined at this level of resistance he could finish out his goal in 100 strong pulls, that seemed very doable, in spite of the bile that churned in his stomach. When had he eaten last? He reached for the remaining water Molly had offered him earlier and took small sips from the rapidly warming bottle to settle his stomach. 

Molly's second to last round was well underway by the time Sherlock looked up from the display of his own rower. She was setting up at the box when she glanced over at Sherlock, checking to make sure he wasn't watching. He quickly lowered his eyes, something about his gaze had her off kilter. He kept his eyes on his own display listening to the grunt and thumps that punctuated a successful landing. Each pull brought him closer to his goal but they were also much harder. His arms and legs strained with effort as the music changed "Live fast, die young. Bad girls do it well." Sherlock wasn't certain if those two sentences were meant to be taken together or separately. Either way he couldn't argue with the logic of it. 

He'd always had a taste for the cliche bad girl, he recalled staying up late to watch his father's hidden copy of "Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill". The fact that his father owned such a thing and thought to hid it suggested that he did also. Instead he married mummy, the very definition of nurturing and sweet. Now he's a dottering old softy, dropping his glasses down the back of the sofa, wasting away in the countryside with his model trains. This was not the future Sherlock had planned for himself.

Sherlock knew if he acted on any of the opportunities that came up with women he found attractive, he would find himself tangled up with some hellcat. No doubt getting himself gunned down in a blaze of glory over some intrigue or other. The last thing he needed was someone who would encourage his erratic behavior and poor impulse control.

The Woman had been an interesting test in that theory. Of course, in that instance neither of them was considering anything remotely long term, or anything beyond that night in Karachi, in fact. And while it was quite flattering that the strictly lesbian dominatrix fancied him, it was clear during their interlude that he wasn't exactly her... favorite flavor. He was fine with that, as the reality of bedding a hellcat didn't quite live up to his fantasies either. No matter, all around it was a lovely jaunt, they parted amicably and on occasion, like to send each other little messages to let the other know all is well. Auld lang syne and all that.

He'd always considered Molly as someone he fell strictly in the former column, someone who would see him settle comfortably into gradual senility, living in some small village, planting tulips until his dying breath. He was aware of the truth now, Molly was some sort of sinister hybrid of the two. Someone in his corner, caring for him, making certain he is in fighting shape. She'd never actively discouraged him from his work. Quite the contrary, she assisted him in every possible way, expressing only a modicum of disparagement when he was being particularly awful to her. He supposed she was entitled to that, and much more as there has never been a promise of mutual reciprocation regarding her work. Not that he'd be opposed to helping her with her work, he did enjoy it very much. 

"Where are you now that I need you?" a singer asked when the track changed. 

She was taking longer between each of her reps, sweat was falling from her hairline onto the mat and her breathing was labored. Her arms trembled bearing her weight for the final round of handstand push ups. She took deep, steadying breaths between each. He could see her pout slightly as she limped to the box. 

"Why don't you just do box-overs for this round, Molly?" Miranda suggested, "Just get over it any way you want, make sure to open your hips at the top." Molly nodded but disregarded the trainer's advice, jumping on the box as she had before. Even if she winced as she landed.

Sherlock glanced at his own display, 300 metres left to go and Molly was nearly finished with the entire work out. He redoubled his efforts, feeling his lungs burn from his rapid respiration. Now, more than ever, he wished he could take back every last cigarette he'd ever smoked. 200 metres left, only twenty strong pulls. Molly was in the middle of her final round of pull ups, pausing between each to breathe deeply giving Sherlock a little bit of time to catch up. He had to at least finish at the same time as her, if he could manage it. His ego was already damaged enough today without falling too far behind her. Hmm behind her, he started picturing her bum in the leggings as she ran in the rain. No! Focus! 150 metres left. 

There was no way he was going to make it, Molly only had 3 pull ups left to do. However she seemed to be running out of steam, taking longer and longer between each before starting with the next. He dug deep for the last dozen or more pulls on the rower watching as Molly gripped the bar and pulled up once. Giving herself the space of 5 breaths before starting again. 40 metres down. Molly bent down to chalk her hands, gripped the bar and pulled up for the second time. 70 metres down, she only had one pull up left. He rowed until every flake of skin on his miserable carcass felt like it was on fire, 90 metres, 120. Molly gripped the bar and pulled up for her third and final time just as Sherlock rowed past the 2000 metre mark.

He let go of the handle, it recoiled back with a snap and he lifted his arms in triumph, only there was no Molly to notice and cheer for him. Because the Molly that would normally be there noticing and cheering for him was laying spread out on the rubber mat floor recovering from her own personal triumph. He supposed that was the thing with these domestic hellcat hybrids, they live for their own victories as well. Suddenly he felt like an utter prick for thinking Molly was making this enormous commitment to her body for reasons as puerile as attracting a man's attention. Any man's attention, including his own. She didn't need to. She never did. 

 _She did it because she's a strong and impressive person. And strong and impressive persons do strong and impressive... things..._ that thought didn't come together as eloquently as he'd hoped. But then again, his vision was quite blurry and his throat felt as if it was made of rocks. Strange. Anyway, if one were to subscribe to the idiom of 'If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all', then the inverse must also be true. If you have something nice to say, you should say it. He felt as though Molly had earned a pat on the back and a hearty "well done" for her efforts today. As soon as he could unlatch his feet from these blasted... latches. _Unlatch from the latches, dear God English is a lazy , graceless language._ As soon as he could déverrouiller le loquet he would go and tell her just how strong and impressive she was-is... all the time. But standing to his feet felt like falling into a shower made of pinpricks and every step he took toward her was stilted and jittery like a newborn foal. 

Sherlock is nearing Molly who finally takes notice of him looming toward her, she snaps up to look at him. "Sherlock? Are you alright? You look like death."

"I am death." Sherlock muttered, his voice sounded as if he'd swallowed a cactus. "Does that mean I'm your boss Molly?" Sherlock chuckled, wobbling slightly as the force of his own laughter knocked him off his delicate equilibrium. 

"Sherlock sit down, have some water." She urged, reaching for his hand to pull him down. 

"I'm the boss. I give the orders. I'll have you on my desk by Monday." He slurred. 

Molly giggled, too flushed from sweating her tits off to muster anything like a blush.

"You're laughing. Why are you laughing? This is no laughing matter." He fell beside her in a thud, crossing his legs underneath him as she pushed her water bottle into his hands. 

"No, sir. Not at all. Have some water."

He obliged her this time, drinking deeply from the bottle, ending with a sigh. "Hmm 'sir'. I think I like it. I think I shall have you call me sir from now on." 

"I'm not going to call you 'sir'. Keep drinking." She instructed while pushing the bottle in his hand toward his face. 

He took the hint, taking another long drink, finishing by wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why not?"

"Don't be silly Sherlock, what would John or Greg say if I just started calling you 'sir' out of the blue? After we've been on a first names basis for 7 years?" She wasn't taking this conversation seriously, the dear was loopy from severe dehydration her primary concern was to get fluids in him before he starts feeling nauseous. 

"Then just call me sir in private." he negotiated, his eyelids drooping, making his prismatic blue-green eyes shine brighter through his lashes and a smirk perking in the corner of his mouth, he leaned forward, lifting his hand to brush her cheek with his thumb. 

Molly nearly froze at the contact, wide brown eyes locking on him warily. "You don't know what you're saying, Sherlock."

"Don't I?" His thumb wandered down her chin and over her bottom lip. 

He leaned closer. Close enough she could feel his hot breath on her overheated skin. 

"Molly." He said, closing his eyes slowly and taking a deep breath. 

"Yes, Sherlock?", She practically whispered. 

"I think I need to lie down now." He answered.

At that moment a new singer warbler to chorus of a new tune, "Blow a kiss. Fire a gun. All we need is somebody to lean on." He smiled at the irony. _Right on, Molly's workout playlist. Right fucking on._ Then everything went dark and he landed on something soft.

"What?! Oh! OH!" She squeaked as he fell against her, leaning over her body like she was a sort of human kickstand. Molly shuffled against him clumsily until she had his head across her lap while she pried open his eyes to examine his pupils. Dehydration and exhaustion. She needed to get him home to food, water, and if God was merciful, a bath and bed. The man was... quite smelly at this point. He'd probably followed her immediately after closing a case after who knows how many days of running, sneaking about, and skip diving.

Molly asked one of the other girls to bring her phone from inside her hoodie pocket so she could order a taxi. She felt better knowing that at least she wouldn't be the smelliest one in the cab tonight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anywho. So I hope you liked that. To quote John Green "Leave your comments in the doobly-doo." The man is a genius, you know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only gets more awkward, kids. What did you expect?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I get annoyed when I feel like it's been too many days since a fic I follow has been updated. That's when a really annoying part of myself reminds me to be the change I want to see in the world. Whatever, self. Self righteous bitch.

Miranda helped Molly shove Sherlock's surprisingly heavy body into the back of the cab. The cabbie sighed and closed the partition as soon as the smell of sweat wafted toward him. 

"Thank you, so much. I'm not sure how I would have managed him alone after that work out!" Molly laughed breathily, standing in the corner of the door she held ajar. 

"Absolutely, Molly. Will you be alright looking after him on your own? I could... stop by perhaps? Check on you? On the both of you." Miranda's smile was tentative, but her offer was sincere. And her quiet blush gave Molly's heart a little start, in spite of her current state of exhaustion. 

Miranda was quite possibly the most attractive woman she'd ever seen in real life. Something like an adult version of the girls that were too cool for her to sit with at school, only friendly. Molly felt slung somewhere between being completely jealous of her and wanting to kiss her all at once.

She'd almost forgotten Miranda had asked her a question as she was busy counting the gold flecks in the woman's lovely carnelian eyes, but the cabbie coughed and gestured toward the running meter. Molly inhaled slightly, already this little chat had cost her two pounds fifty and her frugal nature wouldn't abide for more costly chitchat. 

"I think I can take it from here. Thanks again, Miranda." Molly gave a serenely sleepy smile before turning around to slink beside the groaning pile of sweaty detective barely conscious in the seat. Shutting the door, she took a moment to look out the window to give Miranda a shy wave.

"Hmm" Sherlock grumbled. 

Molly cut her eyes toward the man who was smirking, even as he was slumped into the seat, head bent back all the way against the head rest, revealing a pale length of neck. 

"What?" She asked trying not to sound annoyed.

"Just contemplating the fact that the percentage of women in my life who have a female preference far exceeds the global average of 10%." The corner of his lip curled into a smirk, cracking one eye just enough to glance at her.

"Shut up." Molly muttered, too tired and achy to even give him a playful punch. "It's not a preference. I'm just sort of... equal opportunity. Life is too short to limit your options and anyway... she's quite fit isn't she?" 

The gesture he gave in response wasn't a shrug so much as a shoulder wiggle, but his message of tacit, noncomittal agreement came through all the same.

"Even you should be able to see that she's an attractive woman." Molly added. 

"Is that why you declined her offer? She clearly had motivations for making it, apart from the goodness of her heart." Sherlock muttered.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Molly sighed, shaking her head. 

"Mmm I see. My being present would have influenced your 'groove'. I can go home. I'm an adult, Molly. Despite what you may believe I am perfectly capable of keeping myself alive. You can enjoy your nightcap with your attractive trainer." Sherlock offered, despite sounding a bit sullen at the notion. Or at least Molly thought he did, somewhat.

"No, if you collapse going up the steps I would never forgive myself. Besides, I have every intention of ignoring boring things like macros and nutrients in this takeaway I'm ordering." She answered pulling her phone from her pocket and swiping the residual sweat from the screen. "Wouldn't want her to see me wantonly ignoring all her good advice."

Sherlock chuckled. "Certainly not. She's the one who devises your exercises. Wouldn't want her to feel compelled to help you defeat the notorious effects of your shrimp toasts."

"I'll have you know I'm ordering Indian food. So it will be a truly irresponsible amount of Galab Jamun that will require defeating."

"Ooh!" Sherlock's voice went up at her pronouncement.

"I take it my choice meets with your approval." Molly chuckled quietly. 

"Quite." He answered with a sigh and a smile, she could practically hear his stomach groaning in anticpation. 

"Oh I suppose I could share with you." Molly grinned, still staring at her phone as she typed out her order. 

"You always do." He murmured, voice trailing off quietly, as if he were beginning to doze.

"Whether I want to or not." Molly whispered. 

Sherlock flinched slightly. "I really was just in the neighborhood. It hadn't been my intention to intrude. I was merely... curious." 

"I know." Molly sighed. "It's never your intention to humiliate me, it's just the inevitable byproduct of our encounters." 

"Humiliate? Why on earth are you humiliated? Were you the one who just had to be shoved in a cab by two women half your size because you collapsed after a bit of exercise?" Sherlock asked brusquely. 

"And how many days without food or sleep on top of all your injuries? Not to mention dehydration. Really, Sherlock. Perfectly capable of keeping yourself alive my lily white arse." She scoffed, indignant at his irresponsible behavior.

And there she was, domestic maternal Molly was back with a vengeance, fussing over him, she half expected her to run her hands through his hair a tut at him. To the point that he was beginning to feel more than a bit disappointed that she hadn't started to already.

But when he closed his eyes he couldn't escape the image of domestic, maternal, Molly's aforementioned lily white arse. Bare as she ran ahead of him, glistening with rain. The next steps of course, was to picture fully nude as she did box jumps. Tits bouncing with every leap. Then of course the sway of her hips as she rocked them forward to swing the kettlebell.

Thinking about his crazed ramblings and subsequent precipitous unconsciousness sent a fresh wave for nausea rolling through him. Yes he'd been quite humbled to have made such a fool of himself in front of her. Particularly when he thought about how cocky he'd felt before the class started.

Arousal and shame swirled around inside his guts, like a circling drain. So it was just about business as usual where that was concerned. Molly was rather adept at inspiring emotional vertigo in him.

"What's the matter? Are you going to be sick?" Molly asked causing the cabbie's eyes to flick toward them in the rear view mirror. 

"No!" Sherlock insisted grumpily before the car made a rather sharp turn that caused Sherlock to lurch forward. "Actually, I don't know." 

Molly guided his head toward her lap with a gentle hand on the back of his neck. He settled easily, relieved to finally take his rightful place there. Honestly, entire minutes of his grumbling had to occur before she complied with his unspoken wishes? 

"We're nearly to mine." Molly promised, finally letting her fingers dip into his sweaty mass of curls. If she was bothered by the sweat she did a fair job of hiding it from him. But they both carried the distinct odour of dog water so it would be a bit silly for her to be bothered by it on him.

"And you'll have just enough time to shower before greeting the takeaway delivery." Molly added. Alright well, perhaps she was a bit bothered. His odour might have also held notes of hot garbage from a bit of a skip-diving adventure he took during the case. 

"Just here, thanks." Molly said to the cabbie, gesturing to a corner. When the cab stopped she had to practically drag Sherlock out of the seat before paying the driver, adding an extra tenner as he would certainly need to stop somewhere to scrub the smell of sweaty asses out of the seats.

"You owe me for that cab, by the way." Molly grumbled while slinging one of his arms over her shoulder. All tolled, that little trip cost her nearly 30 quid.

"Add it to the invoice." Sherlock mumbled back, trudging alongside her, dragging the toes of his trainers across the asphalt as he walked. Which prompted her to wrap her arm around his back and rest her dainty fingers on his ribs in order to redouble her efforts to hold him up. He managed to curb his smile, really Molly, she was so easy to predict. 

Next, he gave a little whimper before resting his head atop hers, while still moving toward her flat. This close to her, he could hear her breaths, each escaping in little rhythmic puffs. He could see her shapely lips as her pink tongue darted out to wet them. He could see her eyes as they cut toward him, looking at him askance.

She pursed her lips before letting out a soft "tch." 

He furrowed his brow at her before asking "What?"

Molly giggled as she answered. "You are such a titty baby."

Sherlock nearly halted altogether, standing up straight and pausing. Molly made it three full paces ahead of him before he caught up. "I'm such a what!?"

"A titty baby." Molly repeated, honest to God, smirking. She wore a grin that could easily have been described as 'shit-eating' as she added. "You, know. A mumma's boy. Which is odd, considering how you never call or visit your mum and you're always barking at Mrs. Hudson. And...Oh God. I'm your replacement mum." She said as if she was finally realizing something so stupidly obvious. The tone of discovery tinged with disappointment in oneself. Sherlock was very familiar with that tone. He practically invented that tone.

Sherlock recoiled at the thought. "No! Don't be disgusting, Molly. I'm not some Oedipal weirdo. It offends me that you would even think-"

"Oedipal? Oedipal implies there's a sexual element. No this is... this is like some weird platonic umbilical sort of... thing."

Sherlock's lips turned down into a forceful pout, brows furrowed, and nostrils flaring. "Well I never thought I'd see the day when I'd prefer being thought of as Oedipal."

Molly curled her arm around his, hooking hers into the crook of his and pulling him close enough to press a soft kiss to his nose. "Forget I said anything Sherlock. I'm tired. I'm just feeling... I don't know. It must be all this exercise. All this blood flow is making me think too much. When I think too much, I talk too much." She chuckled quietly, turning toward the door they'd just stopped in before, fishing out her keys to open the door.

She froze and nearly dropped them when he closed the gap between them to pull her close and felt (felt!) him sigh into her hair. "I could never begrudge you a bit of over-thinking, Molly. You've always been patient with mine."

Molly was stunned still but swallowed at a lump that refused to dislodge in her throat. The keys jangled as she forcibly brought herself into reality. Working double time to get the lock undone, she swung the door open. "It's alright Sherlock." She half whispered putting distance between them. She managed to disguise her shiver by pulling her worn hoodie over her head. The cooler temperature could bear the blame for the gooseflesh that rose over her shoulders, arms, and (most damningly) the nape of her neck.

She paused when she realized he had yet to cross the threshold into her flat.  He was simply standing in the corridor looking like a lost child. "Erm... the shower is just... what am I saying? You know where the shower is." She chuckled uncomfortably again. "You-You can uh... leave your clothes and things and I'll throw them in with mine. I think you still have a shirt or two and a pair of pants lying about here. I'll find them while you freshen up, yeah?"

She reached her hand toward him, gesturing in a come hither motion. He seemed to snap out of some sort of trance and obliged. He shut the door behind him and with a blank expression he started toward the bathroom.

"Just leave your clothes outside and I'll throw them in the laundry basket." She saw the back of his head bob as he nodded in agreement.

She sighed, tinged with relief and regret to see the  back of him disappear behind the door. But she set to work shedding her own offending clothes and replacing them with a dressing gown to cover her nude frame. 

The sound of the shower spray prompted her to check outside the door for his things, when they weren't there she gently rapped on the door but heard no response. He must have just tossed them on the floor without bothering to put them outside like she'd asked.

With a sigh she pushed open the door, bending down to retrieve the clothes strewn about the floor. Only to come face to... well _cheek_ with the world's only arse of the world's only consulting detective. Who turned around abruptly so that it was something altogether else in her face.

"Molly!" He shouted before shielding himself from her view with both hands.

"Sherlock!" She gasped, clutching his loose clothing to her chest. "Bollocks!" She reacted, flinging herself back toward the door. "I saw your bollocks. Okay... okay. Erm..." She looked away blushing, clinging to the clothing for dear life. "Enjoy your shower. The rest of your shower. Okay goodbye." Before scuttling out the door, burning with humiliation. 

He heard her muffled "sorry" through the door and over the cacophony of the shower spray.

He slinking beneath the water, he slumped against the wall. Of course that just happened. After probably the single most humbling day  (after asking for her help faking his suicide, of course) she would accidentally see him naked, naturally. He'd made a fool of himself in front of her, and her trainer (whom Sherlock had not so incorrectly deduced Molly had a crush on), then summarily dismissed the very notion that any sort of sexual tension existed between her and himself. 

He comforted himself with the notion that someday something would have to give. Either she would come around to his way of thinking or he would become just as over her as she is of him. Shame. She'd given him so many chances, so many opportunities to enjoy her being well... under him.

And in all that time he never manged to get it together enough to reciprocate. He figured it was just as well, he couldn't afford the distraction. He noted with disdain the evidence of such distraction jutting from his hips as the water poured over him.

He should have seen this coming the moment he turned on the shower head. He'd taken far too long a moment contemplating her water pressure. Her a adjustable shower head had been left on the highest pressure setting, only useful for stripping heavily caked on filth or for properly stimulating a clitoris to orgasm. He'd let his head spin, contemplating each possibility, before entering the shower. Giving Molly Hooper ample time to shatter yet another boundary between them.

Hadn't her last shower been after her previous session at the gym? The night he'd spent with her, rehashing the arson case?  Oh God another rabbit hole that didn't need any additional time going down 

He'd need to take his time calming down, another thing proving difficult when he reached in the cupboard over her toilet that contained his toiletries. And at this very moment she was gathering his spare clean clothes he'd left with her. God, why couldn't she see the inescapability of their relationship the way he could?  It was maddening.

Somehow he would have to make her see reason. This situation had reached the end of it's sustainability.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arguments and resolutions.

_Fucking Hell!_

  
Molly paced in front of her washing machine for a moment of frantic confusion before a deep inhalation reminded her she still held their filthy laundry in her arms. She shoved their soiled clothes in quickly, tossing a detergent pod (or three) in and punching the buttons to start the wash cycle. She sighed heavily, leaning against the cold metal as the basin slowly filled. 

He was obviously trying to kill her. She'd seen too much (him all needy and vulnerable and shiny red like a newborn kitten). He must have just decided it would be simpler to kill her than deal with any future awkwardness. She couldn't think of a single other reason why he would be doing this to her now. Well, she could think of one other reason, but it was so ludicrous she could hardly shape the thought out of the abstract. 

The only alternative was that Sherlock was acting like a fumbling dork with a crush _because_ he's a fumbling dork with a crush. And, as if the whole situation hadn't already been surreal enough, it seemed his crush was on her. 

_Oh Jesus._

She actually felt her neurons humming when the evidence finally came together and she realized it was true. He'd been acting with the exact amount of stupidity you'd expect from a man with the emotional intelligence of a parsnip and a very particular boner for a very specific pathologist.

Fun fact: Sherlock Holmes has a crush on Molly Hooper.

Now what to do with that information?

Her stomach audibly groaning was a blunt reminder of the meal she ordered back in the cab- how she'd only tapped in the first part of her order but chrome auto-filled the rest, including Sherlock's usual selections.

In a million years Molly would never be able to say why remembering that tiny, seemingly innocuous detail, sent her spinning. There was nothing unusual about it, but it was the fact that it had become so usual without her even noticing.

She slumped against the cool wall of the washing machine, mobile in her hand as she slid down and seated herself cross-legged on the floor. She lifted her hand gazing disbelievingly at the device perched in her palm.

She couldn't fight her curiosity, the phone seemed to taunt her with the confirmation of what she'd denied up to this moment. She pulled up her food ordering app, thumbing through their favorite takeaway restaurants, starting an order, only to watch it auto-complete, filling in Sherlock's each time. She huffed, exiting the app and pocketing her mobile. 

She rushed to her sitting room, turning on her smart TV and opening Netflix. Confirming what she already knew, that since her life had become intertwined with Sherlock's, her Netflix account had begun curating it's suggestions very differently, "Based on your interest in 'The Vanishing of the Bees' We think you may like..." ,"Based on your interest in 'H.H. Holmes: America's First Serial Killer' We think you may like...", "Based on you interest in 'Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood' we think you may like..." All suggestions based on selections Sherlock had made. 

In all fairness, that last one was during a visit with little Evelyn Watson, but she had no explanation for why they continued watching it in their own unique brand of amicable laconism, for 2 hours after the little girl's parents had arrived to take her home.

She recalled how he'd given her hand a gentle squeeze when she mournfully murmured, "Not always." During the cartoon animals' reassuring song 'Grown-ups come back'. Neither of them strangers to the solemn burden of informing a family that no, the person they are waiting for will not be coming back. But the gesture had been surprising. Coming from Sherlock, anyway. Somehow it seemed oddly... empathetic-as impossible as that sounded in her head. 

Molly was always quick to remind herself that she was likely projecting her own feelings, and he'd simply deduced that a small amount of human contact was the best remedy for circumventing a tedious show of emotion from her. 

Still. Even knowing that she holds the memory dear, protecting it from the tainting affects of her shrewd, careful doubt. Her heart requires nourishment just as much as protection, and she needs that, she needed to believe that the time they spend together actually meant something to him. It meant the world to her. 

And that's what The Holmes brothers mean when they say caring is not an advantage. Sherlock would chide her, tell her that her feelings were purely based on the evolutionary desire to form human connections the same evolutionary process had already outmoded. Her lesser-evolved primate brain hadn't yet gotten the memo. 

Sighing, she looked about her home, her sanctuary, and every square metre there seemed to be evidence of a severe Sherlock Holmes infestation. A startlingly unfavorable feeling rose through her. When she looked at it objectively, her flat did not look like the lair of the sophisticated, professional, single woman she fancied herself to be.

The washing machine in her corridor was gesticulating a load of the man's dirty clothes, her wardrobe held stacks of the same man's clean shirts, fresh pants and socks that had somehow accumulated at her residence over the years. 

Her bedroom is home to one of his extra-firm, hypoallergenic down-alternative king-sized pillows that always nudges onto her side of the bed- over the 1800 thread count sheets he'd thrown in her basket during a shopping trip. "It's one-third of your life, Molly, have a bit of respect." he scoffed when she'd objected. Molly had been too kind, at the time, to point out how hypocritical that was coming from a man who routinely goes days without sleep (but if the man felt like dropping 80 quid for sheets out of the blue, she wasn't going to argue). All of which rested atop the bed where she had, on numerous occasions, awoken in his arms. 

Her kitchen was littered with evidence of him. His unwashed dishes, his preferred biscuits, his favorite crisps, the ridiculously elitist brand of coffee he purchases from a painfully hip specialty shop in The Village. 'His' mug sat on the worktop beside hers, Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein respectively. She'd bought the set on impulse to meet the minimum purchase requirement for free shipping on an online splurge. He'd sort of just... appropriated it after the package arrived. 

The cup in her bathroom sink housed his spare toothbrush, the shelves above stocked with his toiletries and in her shower... She slammed the door shut on that train of thought. She didn't have the mental energy to devote to picturing Sherlock Holmes' long body, leaning against the cool tile of her shower's wall, smiling with satisfaction while warm water cascaded over the planes of his taut abdomen. Okay, she had enough to picture it a little. 

Overwhelmed, and frankly a little pissed off that Sherlock had somehow hoodwinked  her into doing all the work of a girlfriend with none of the reward, and she had just gone along with it like a rudderless sap.

But that wasn't entirely true, being with Sherlock was rewarding, intellectually and career-wise, her time with Sherlock had been well-spent. But much of their time together was not on the clock, so to speak. Most of it was him kipping at her flat, driving her mad with his cheek bones, curls, and unreasonable demands, but even that she could say was worth the trouble. When she weighed it against the lives saved and wrongs righted, it was worth the years spent half in knots with wanting and worry for him.

The point that concerned her now, was the very muddy boundaries between them as individuals. Who even was she without him now? How did she become enmeshed in his life, how was she so foolish as to her allow her life to be shaped by the likes of Sherlock Holmes? 

On the one hand, her life was frustrating and complicated before Sherlock came along, and she knew it still would be even if they parted ways. May as well indulge in a bit of recreational science with a handsome bloke, if she was going to be locked in existential crisis either way. 

A part of her perked up to remind her that she didn't actually know that things wouldn't be better without Sherlock hanging about. Perhaps her constancy in his life was proving a crutch, hindering some sort of... personal growth? For herself. For them both. Can she even reach the goals she has for her life with Sherlock Holmes weighing down on her as her own proverbial albatross? 

Did she care? That question had a potentially horrifying answer so she elected not to delve any further. 

She didn't have to, the buzzer to her flat rang, notifying her that their takeaway had arrived. Which prompted her to realize that Sherlock had been in the shower and awfully long time.

So much for leaving any hot water for her...

 

* * *

 

Sherlock struggled to stay upright under the spray of the water. Exhaustion, hunger, and abject mortification were taking their toll on him, forcing him to prop himself against the tiled walls, arms and legs somewhat akimbo causing him to narrowly avoid a potentially deadly fall. He was only rescued by the grippy, flower-shaped, decals adhering to the slick floor. 

His genitals, however, failed to read the situation correctly, deciding instead, that now was a perfectly good time for a pernicious erection. Just as he thought the beast had been tamed, it rared back up again. He might have been impressed had he not been, as previously mentioned, so very tired, hungry, and embarrassed. And also if he weren't... well Sherlock.

He'd never been the kind of man who put much stock in such abilities. And if he had, well he'd find this whole business all the more wasteful.

It took three tries, but he felt confident that he'd adequately drained whatever sort of obstruction was making him so very... turgid. By then the hot water hand shifted entirely to cold and he wanted to slap himself, would slap himself, had he the energy. If this was going to be a regular thing with Molly (who was he kidding? It already is), he would need to devise a more sound masturbatory strategy than waiting until his bollocks weighed as much as Mycroft on a cake bender. Large flat blocks like this didn't typically have plumbing with the capacity to withstand regular deposits of heavily viscous materials. 

Molly's ancient taps squeaked loudly as he cut off the spray, reaching for one of the towels she kept stacked, folded, precariously in the rack above the toilet. He pulled it toward himself with less care than usual, sending the entire stack tumbling to the floor. He sighed, replacing them where they were kept rolling, rather than folding each one, before returning them to the little shelf on the wire-rack.  This very thing had been a regular argument between them, as was the toothpaste tube she refused to squeeze from the bottom, and the loo roll she insisted must be placed on the holder in the under rather than the (far superior) over position.

It irritated him how little irritation those small foibles of hers offered him anymore. There was a time when he fed off such little annoyances, intolerance for those things were what he used to power the engine of his determined bachelorhood. His rigid neurotic programming had somehow failed him, causing these little peeves to seem almost endearing. 

 _Actually endearing_ , Heaven help him. 

It was disgusting.

He was disgusted with himself, getting warm fuzzies over Molly's impractical wash room set-up after having thrice masturbated to thoughts of her.

Sherlock rubbed the excess water from his hair, drying his body before wrapping the towel around his waist. His spare clothes were not there when he was finished, nor did he hear Molly enter the room to place them in there (thankfully). He peered out the door, checking for her on either side before stepping out in just his towel in search of the promised garments.   

Neither his hostess, nor his clothing, were within sight from the corridor outside the wash room.

Confused in the near-delirium of his weariness combined with the stark drop in blood pressure from his long time spent in the steaming shower, he trailed into her sitting room/dinette. Their food rested upon the work top, still bagged. No efforts had been made to unpack it.

"Molly?" He called out, feebly, the cold air of the flat giving him a slight chill. 

"In here." She answered, her voice barely carrying from her bedroom. Not making an effort to project, she was irritated with him. Fantastic.

He took his time shuffling toward her open bedroom door, pausing at the entryway when he caught sight of her sitting cross-legged on her bed in a camisole and flannel shorts, hair hastily put up in a messy bun. She must have deduced (correctly) the lack of hot water. Choosing to dress in her pyjamas instead of lounging around in her dressing gown for a shower that would not be happening for another while yet. 

He lowered his eyes a bit in shame, thinking that the reason for her ire, instead he took note of several folded shirts, about half a dozen pairs of trunks and men's socks balled together scattered at the foot of her bed. She balled his socks? He _hated_ that! Socks were meant to be folded, so as to be accurately indexed. 

Wait, why were his things gathered at the foot of her bed?

"Sherlock, I need you to tell me what's happening here." She gestured to the man's personal effects, stacked in place as if she were packing him up for a short holiday. 

"I was going to ask you the same." came his pithy retort. 

"Back at the cab, you offered to let me take you home so I could have a night cap with Miranda. How well did you think that would have gone if she came to my one-bedroom flat and found evidence of a man living here?" Her voice was gentle but it was still an accusation. 

"Christ, Molly, you would have brought her back here after one date?" That was a deflection, and far more judgmental one than he had any right to lob at her.

Molly sighed out a harsh breath. "I do quite well, thank you very much, and you're changing the subject."

"A man's things in your bathroom could be easily explained, there isn't anything inherently... indecorous about it." He'd concede that he had made himself rather at home in her flat, but refused to acknowledge that it had any effect whatsoever on her personal life. This whole arrangement predicated on his ability to maintain that cognitive dissonance. Otherwise he might feel... guilt... or something. Some sort of implacable sense that his actions were unwelcome. He loathed the very notion of being unwelcome around Molly. 

"And how, pray tell, would I explain your pants in my wardrobe?" She countered with the sort of righteous indignation of a person who'd just found your fatal flaw. 

"Why would she need to go into your wardrobe?" A question with a question. He was cornered and therefore reduced to schoolyard tactics. 

She gave him a pointed look. "Think, Sherlock. What else is in my wardrobe?"

The instant the words left her lips, his mind palace brought up his catalog of Molly's sundries, sorting and filing every item in nanoseconds before he happened upon the black box. The box that Molly had made clear, was entirely off limits to Sherlock Holmes' snooping. He'd respected her wishes, but he didn't need superior deductive reasoning to work out what all could be found inside of it, or why Miranda would have gone into the wardrobe in search of it.

He coloured, hanging his head. He mumbled his assent to her victory, in this argument, but she (deliberately) failed to hear him. 

"Didn't quite catch that..."

He sneered obstinately, squaring off to face her, his hands held behind his back. "You're right. I'm sorry." He grumbled, over pronouncing each word. He flinched, grimacing as if those two minuscule sentences had left a bad aftertaste. When he dared to glance at Molly again she did not look impressed with his feat of managing an admission of wrongness and an apology at once. 

Her arms were folded over her chest. "That's nice." She said as if she didn't think it was even a little nice. "What is the plan moving forward to correct this?"

He blinked, baffled by her question, what kind of answer did she want? He was the person you asked to find solutions, not create them. Just then little cartoon animals popped up in his mind palace to remind him that _'Saying I'm sorry, is the first step. Then, how can I help?'_  -in song, even.

He really needed to delete that silly programme from his hard drive but his little Evey adored it so much. He wasn't entirely confident he could delete the cartoon without also deleting the sight of Evelyn Watson's smiling face as she clapped along, humming tunelessly with the twee creatures. Up until this moment, he hadn't questioned whether it was worth it to have the population of the neighborhood of make believe setting up residence in his brain,in exchange for that image. 

Sherlock swallowed, brows knitting together as if working on a complex equation. "H-how can I... How would you like me to correct it?" He stammered out. 

"That depends on you." She answered cryptically. Any other day she couldn't help herself from sputtering in clumsy forthrightness. Today she seemed determined to quiz him. 

"What about me exactly?" He pressed, causing her to groan in frustration before balling her small hands into fists and launching herself off her bed toward him. She aimed her finger at his chest like a jouster's lance as she stormed forward. 

"Sherlock Holmes, Do you want to be my boyfriend?!" She shouted angrily, as if she was anticipating an incriminating answer. He was baffled. This was not at all how he'd planned this would go. His eyes widened as his mind spun. Finally, she was asking the right question but somehow in the wrong way. 

"Be-because if you want to keep doing boyfriend things with me then you-" She paused glancing up at him, her expression tight and nervous, yet determined. Her finger jabbing into his sternum. "I need you to actually be my boyfriend if you want me to continue treating you like one. Otherwise... otherwise..." Her hand dropped, and she banded her arms about herself nervously, turning her back to him.

 "You can still use my flat as a bolt hole. But you need to take your things home with you when you leave. And..." He saw her shoulders straighten and she turned back to face him once more. "And you have to sleep on the sofa."

 

* * *

 

 

Molly drew in a heavy breath. She'd finally said it. Sherlock was standing still with the 'reboot' expression plastered on his dopey face. This could be a while. She sat up, brushing him past him out of the bedroom and into her kitchenette to plate their dinner and make tea.

She switched the kettle on, hearing him shuffle around in her room as she loaded vindaloo onto her plate. Ordinarily she would make one up for Sherlock as well, but she'd just pledged not to treat him like her boyfriend anymore. He had two arms and legs, and he certainly knew where everything was. He was capable of taking care of himself, as he'd said earlier. If she was going to set boundaries, she would have to be consistent. Any exception to the rule will have this all spiraling back to how it was before. 

The sound of fabric rustling caused her heart to sink, he was packing up his things, preparing to take them back to his flat. The first in a number of tiny removals that would constitute his exodus from her home, and her life. She didn't turn back to look at him when she heard his footsteps echoing through the corridors, growing nearer. 

She held her breath, concentrating on scooping rice onto her plate in an even heap. He stopped, just a few feet behind her while the petite brunette studiously ignored the looming spectre behind her.

He cleared his throat, an attempt to get her attention and she braved a look at him. He'd taken the time to dress in his shirt and pants after she made her escape. 

"Before I can answer accurately, I need to make a few inquiries, for the sake of clarity." His gaze was intent on her, focused. Again his arms were clasped behind his back as he often did while deep in contemplation. 

Well... that certainly wasn't what she expected him to say, but she steeled herself for a disappointing turn. "Fine." She responded, shrugging one shoulder. 

"Were I to agree to be your... paramour-"

" _Boyfriend_." She corrected. 

He rolled his eyes, grumbling something under his breath before conceding, "Fine! Were I to agree to be your _boyfriend_..." he only grimaced a bit when he'd said it, she gave him marks for that. "How would things be... different?"

She should have expected that question, yet she found herself drawing a blank as to how to answer. "I want to be a consideration when you're making decisions for your life. I want to be a part of your plans for the future, even if there's not really a plan, just the recognition the whatever the future has for you, that you want me to be included..." She started out strongly, but her voice gradually became quieter as she spoke, Sherlock's unreadable face draining away her confidence. 

Sherlock looked a little disappointed. "That's all?" He asked. "How is that different?"

Molly's eyebrows rose, "It's different because... because it just is. I've never been a consideration to you, Sherlock. Please don't lie and say I have been."

"Where did you come up with that idea? Because I'm dismissive and rude does not mean I don't consider you. I always consider you Molly. When I was shot, I thought of you..."

Her face jerked toward him in annoyance, "Had you considered me then you wouldn't have been shot in the first place!" She spat.

His already cat-like eyes narrowed even further, homing in on her, staring directly into her, it felt. "How was I meant to consider you then, when you were not mine to consider? For all anyone knew, you had... what was it? 'Moved on'."

"You knew that was a lie." She murmured, defeated. "You knew it and you just watched and let me make a fool out of myself." She tried to pull away, put distance between them. He would not allow it, closing any separation she could manage. "And you toyed with that woman... Janine. It's one thing to do that to me but..."

"I've told you! Nothing happened with Janine!" He grumbled in frustration. 

"Nothing happened with _me_!" She shouted back, causing him to reel back from her nostrils flaring, as if dodging a strong blow.

He blinked, processing everything before turning a hungry, wolfish expression onto her, "So... supposing we moved forward with this concept... Things would remain largely the same, except there would be a mutual expectation of physical displays of affection?"

Molly froze, uncertain how to answer. "It's an oversimplification but... yes. Obviously, there would be no rush. We could take things..." she was going to say slowly but he raised his hand to halt her, eyes darting aside as though he were piecing together a particularly fascinating puzzle. 

His blue-green eyes blazed at her and he licked his lips, giving her a shiver. "And you would find such an arrangement with me to be... suitable?"

"Is that a serious question?" She scoffed, turning toward the kettle that had just clicked off. She comforted herself with the routine of making tea. 

She felt large hands on her shoulders, shifting her to face him. She immediately abandoned her little ritual to meet his gaze. His expression was steady, but his breaths were quick, panting draws. "I need you to think carefully, Molly. Think of me the worst you have ever seen me..."

She turned away, images flooding her mind. Sherlock's desperate plea for her to help him die. Sherlock strung out, red hand prints rising on his face. Sherlock laid out on a stretcher, machines breathing for him. She had a number of 'worst' images to choose from. They were all bad, all the absolute worst. "Stop." Molly's voice trembled as she plead for it to stop. She didn't know which, him or the memories. 

"No. Think, Molly. I need to know." his hold on her shoulders tightened as he shifted to catch her elusive gaze.

"Think of the manipulator, the narcissist, the junkie. Think of him and consider having to look people in the eyes and telling them you _chose_ him. Consider what they'd say. Consider what they would think that said of _you_."

There it was, the crux of it. He didn't care what people had to say about him. She'd heard the names, she'd read the tabloids. He dealt with ignorance and vitriole daily, he could handle it. It was the thought of Molly having to bear it as well... well that was a bridge too far.

Her mouth fell with shock as she gaped in the face of Sherlock's bald honesty, before gathering herself to make the most confident statement of her life.

"No."

"No?" He repeated.

"No, Sherlock Holmes, I refuse to waste, even an instant, of this short life giving a single fuck about what anyone thinks of me. Of _us_." 

One hand snaked to the back of her neck pulling her toward him, pressing his forehead against hers, wanting to keep her close but no longer capable of dealing with the sensory experience of her direct eye contact. 

Her own hand traveled up and down his freshly-shaven jaw as she continued.

"You asked me to think of the worst I'd ever seen you. There are too many instances to choose from. I don't need to think of it. I _lived_ it. I was there. _With_ you. Don't you see?"

She felt him nod his agreement against her forehead, dropping a chaste kiss to her crown. "Every time."

"Every time." She echoed back, the hand that held his face caressed downward to trace his lips with her fingertips. "When you need someone, I want to be there. Every time. It's much easier if you're not keeping me at arms length." 

"You're right." He kissed the tips of her dainty fingers as he spoke "Of course you're right, you're bloody brilliant."

"Knew you'd catch on eventually." She giggled as he clasped her hand in his, pulling it down to trap it at her side. 

Molly leaned forward, lips parted, awaiting the warm press of his lips, only to have him stop short of a brief brush. 

He chuckled nervously when his stomach gave a great rumble, twice as loud as it was abrupt. She laughed along with him, giving him a short peck, a placeholder for a proper deal-sealing snog. 

"Is that a yes, Molly Hooper?" He asked as she offered him the plate she'd already made up.

"Yes, Sheock Holmes, you can be my boyfriend." She assured, placing the plate in his hands, before setting onto the tea things.

She joined him minutes later with two mugs and her own food. From that moment they were back to their old casual intimacy, only better knowing it represented something. Something larger than the two of them individually. Something not named, quite yet. A promise, to be present, a promise to always try. 

They ate until they were drowsy, carrying each other toward her bedroom. Falling into bed and and each other's arms, they exchanged tender kisses until weighty lids dragged them out of consciousness. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your patience and encouragement! This is the second to last chapter, expect a ratings change in the next one! ;)

**Author's Note:**

> This will definitely be multi-chap. I originally planned it as a one-shot, but you know how these things go. Anyway, hope you got some laughs out of this so far.


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